The Paths Left Untravelled
by EsotericSpell
Summary: With delicate grace and methodical precision, the loom unravels and the story is woven anew. Seven deaths of the Dalish Warden.
1. Family

Because, for me, what-could-have-been is just as fascinating as what actually happened. This project started out as a simple question: how would my Mahariel respond to the massacre path of Merrill's Act III quest in Dragon Age 2? The answer was an immediate: a lot of blood. From there, I found six other situations I'd toyed with previously and decided to actually write some of it down. Each chapter is essentially a one-shot, and there is obviously at least once instance of character death in each.

First up: in which she never really gets a chance.

* * *

Young Dalish know of a grove deep within the Brecillian Forest where adults do not tread and all kinds of fledgling wanderings are allowed. Huge, ancient trees with trunks nearly as wide as aravels circle the grove, protecting its inhabitants since centuries past. Children run and play at ease, exploring make-believe Arlathan amongst gnarled roots, stout rocks, and a clear, glistening stream. Dalish on the cusp of adulthood take on a different sort of exploration far from the watchful gaze of the clan elders. Eventually Dalish children grow into Dalish adults and the grove is left to memory to make way for the next generation.

Long after the elves leave, the trees remain: watching, listening, protecting. Laughter, hushed whispers, and dramatic boasts alike come to the trees as shifts in the air come to elves and humans, more akin to a feeling than anything else. What the trees hear now is unrest.

"Aran!" a black haired elven woman cried out in warning below, holding her ground in the centre of the grove.

Aran, brown hair hung loose, swiveled on his heels and was quick enough to grab his staff and block the arrow heading straight for his chest with a telekinetic barrier. The arrow, now devoid of any momentum, fell to the ground with an inaudible thud.

With a frown on his face, Aran held his staff at the ready. "Nara?" he asked without averting his eyes from the cluster of trees ahead of him.

"Bandits," Narahel confirmed with a short nod, unconsciously hugging her swollen stomach. For an agonizingly long moment she had been afraid her more impulsive clan mates had decided to make good on their word to make Aran pay. But, no, no proper Dalish hunter would lay claim to such a sloppy shot. It could only be a shem or flat ear. Not that her clanmates wouldn't do something so fool-hardy. Right from the beginning, relations between the Sabrae and Ridiyna had been tense with Ridiyna viewing Aran as an impulsive, fledgling elf not old enough to be a proper Keeper who also had the indignity to spit on some of their most ancient prejudices and Sabrae being unable to swallow such a direct insult to their Keeper. Instead of uniting the clans, as Aran had naively hoped for in the beginning, Narahel and Aran's union drove a bigger wedge between the two.

Her birth clan was one of the oldest and hardest hit by the shemlen. Nearly every family suffered through a murder or a rape, oftentimes both. Her clanmates couldn't see the strength in Aran or potential in his ideals, and they certainly couldn't see how well Narahel and Aran worked together. Aran needed someone to ground him and keep his ego from inflating too far. She was acting for the benefit of herself and clan, even if few could see it.

Her Elders, especially, hadn't handled news of her pregnancy well and that disapproval had quickly spread to the rest of her clan. The past couple of months had been tense but she had persevered and Keeper Gideron had finally withdrawn his objection to their bonding. Amidst the whispers and glares from her family, the few hours she could spend with Aran were worth it. And now that she had formally requested to transfer clans she, Aran, and the baby could be a family. Truthfully, it felt like a dream. It only figured that her dream would become a nightmare before she could truly enjoy it.

Aran shot a warning blast of ice into the trees, hoping that if he proved he and Nara were no ordinary travellers, the bandits might reconsider attacking. However, he wasn't too hopeful. The tattoos on their foreheads should have been enough proof. Most Dalish elves save for those selected to venture into human villages had no need for coin and as such didn't carry any.

Instead of slinking back into the lofty embrace of the forest, a lone figure stepped out from behind a weathered oak tree. He wore the patchwork leathers of a typical bandit and wielded a crude long sword in his right hand. With a wicked grin, he stepped forward.

"Hand over yer sovereigns, an' we won't spit ya," the bandit spoke roughly, running a calloused finger down the flat blade of his sword as if to prove his point.

Narahel glared back, her fury only inflated at the tone of the dirty shem. "We don't have any. Leave. Now." She made a move for her bow.

Undeterred, the bandit chuckled. "We got a lively one, boys," he called out with a quick nod behind him. He eyed her stomach. "Looks like someone's already gotten to 'er, but nothin' says we can't have a little fun."

Aran's only response was to send a spike of ice through the bandit's unguarded chest.

The rest of mob immediately retaliated. Those with blades leapt into the fray and charged at Aran and Nara. Nara, although pregnant, was by far the best shot in her clan and a slight bulge in her stomach did nothing to hinder her aim. Aran, as the Keeper of his clan, had honed his abilities to near perfection and was nearly as proficient with stone as he was with ice, but the pair was quickly forced into the defensive as bandit bowmen circled the small clearing and more and more swordsmen charged.

Momentarily distracted by an arrow whizzing past his ear, Aran missed the advance of a dual-wielding rogue. At the last moment Aran attempted to dodge the attack but moved too slow to avoid the hit altogether. With a sickening slick as metal sliced through skin, Aran took a swipe across his navel and stumbled. Nara let an arrow fly but it was too late—the damage was done.

"Aran!" Narahel cried, choking on her words as the mage collapsed back into her arms. Mindless of the blood, she gingerly turned him over and began fumbling for a bandage.

"Nara," Aran gurgled, closing his shaky hands over hers. "My clan isn't far. Go to them."

Pulling her arms free, Nara quickly grabbed her longbow, notched an arrow, and felled an advancing thug. The bald flat ear joined the bodies of his previous companions with a startled cry. Although the clearing was now bandit-free, the two elves were by no means safe. Rather, it was the calm before the storm.

Heedless of the danger waiting on the fringes of her vision, Nara dropped her bow. Aran shifted his hands to rest on her stomach. He flashed Narahel a small, pained grin. "Make sure she's safe," he mumbled in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

Nara didn't question the 'she'. Aran just seemed to _know_ things sometimes, as if the fates themselves whispered knowledge into his pointed ears. Perhaps it was because he was a Keeper. Perhaps it was luck. Perhaps it was just one of the facets of his personality she had yet to fully understand.

After a shaky breath, he continued. "Ashalle will help you." There was a pause and he gave a feebly, bloody cough. Nara's nimble fingers, still attempting to close the wound, paused and she moved her hands to encase his. For a short moment, parents and child were connected. For a short moment, Nara got her wish. For a moment, they were a family.

"I love you, Nara."

The light in his eyes faded and he died with a ghost of a smile on his lips. Narahel moved to stand but hesitated for a moment to relish in Aran's touch one last time.

Her hesitation was her downfall. A nearby bowman chose that moment to shoot and Nara took the arrow through her heart. She didn't make a sound—only blinked once and collapsed. Her heart stopped and her unborn child, deprived of its lifeline, silently faded away.


	2. During this your last hour only silence

The second death: also called "what happens in six out of the seven Origins".

Although they are not superstitious by nature, the elves of Clan Sabrae skirt warily around two saplings, one a birch and the other slightly younger, an elm. There is nothing dangerous about the replanted trees or the accompanying planes of recently upturned soil, nor is the area filled with an unseen sinister presence. Quite the opposite, actually. Tamlen, though brash and impulsive, had no trouble bringing laughter to the evening campfire and the young Mahariel had been the pride of her clan: an impeccable hunter and blossoming leader with unwavering determination and a fierce loyalty to those she called kin. Dalish elves are not naturally prone to skittishness, but there is something so very _wrong_ about the two graves and even though the entire clan will be heading to the Free Marches the following morning, even the most stalwart hunter is anxious to leave their summer camp behind.

_Swiftly do stars burn a path across the sky,_

Only Merrill can bear the heavy aura of loss. She is heartbroken, yes— she had grown up with them and had watched from afar their burgeoning friendship, only recently mustering the courage to speak up midst the two strong personalities— but she is also curious, so very curious. She remembers tired, glossy green eyes that had once been so clear and focused. She remembers Mahariel's screams cutting through the night and she remembers heavy days of watching her friend descend into madness, frantically pleading for the singing to stop. Merrill both respects and fears whatever did this to her clanmates.

_Hast'ning to place one last kiss upon your eye,_

Fenarel, however, cannot bring himself to stand closer than an aravel's length to the graves, let alone linger around them. He had been the one to discover Mahariel's fevered form hours after she and Tamlen were due to return to camp. He had been the one in charge of the failed search for Tamlen's body and later, he had assisted in digging both graves. He, more than anyone except for the Keeper, recognized how much the clan had lost. More than two hunters. More than two of their own. An _elvhen _relic had done this. Not shemlen or dwarven, but something of _theirs_, corrupted and tainted by some foul presence. Their past couldn't be trusted, not anymore. So he breezes through the funeral rites and distances himself from the pain. With Mahariel's firm voice in his mind, he stands tall and reminds himself that Dalish hunters, above all else, dealt with what they were given.

_Tenderly land enfolds you in slumber,_

Hahren Paivel sits at the fire, lost in bittersweet memories of an indignant five year old girl with choppy pigtails and a perpetual scowl firmly insisting to practise with a bow twice her height. The same girl, who, a little more than a decade later, sat unflinching as he tattooed the symbol for Andruil across her forehead. He tries to distract himself by reciting the Fall of Dales to the children around him, but halfway through he hears himself explain that the loss of the homeland felt like "losing your favourite bow" and he lets out a huff that is half-sob, half-laugh. With a deep breath and a quick glance at the tears brimming in Ashalle's eyes, Paivel chooses to remember _that _girl, not the fever-ridden woman whose soul he had just guided to the Beyond.

_Softening the rolling thunder._

Ashalle is not ashamed of the tears in her eyes. She is not ashamed to admit that she is in pain. She wished she could remember the better moments: Ellina's first bulls-eye, her first successful hunt, or her first elvish word, but at the moment all she could remember was the quiet baby with keen eyes the morning after Narahel vanished. The laughter and stories and triumphs would come later, as the saplings over the graves took root and grew into the tallest, strongest, wisest trees in the land. Ashalle takes a long look at the forest around her, at the elms and oaks and pines and firs and wonders how many of them contain the spirits of her fallen Dalish kinsmen. Even worse, how many parents sat in her position, staring at all that was left of a beloved child, knowing that their son or daughter would not be last. A mug of tea appears in her hand and she takes a sip, whispering a prayer that the roots of Ellina's tree may one day find the oak and willow of her mother and father. One hadn't needed to be Aran's best childhood friend to see his presence in Ellina and to Ashalle it felt like she was losing him all over again.

_Dagger now sheathed, bow no longer tense._

Keeper Marethari sits in her aravel, finishing a day-old poultice that will no longer be needed. Dalish couldn't afford to waste resources, after all. She adds the last drops of Foxglove root oil with methodical precision, so consumed in her thoughts that she barely hears the steady _plip, plip, plip._ Despite how baselessly optimistic it sounded, she had always hoped to guide Aran Mahariel's daughter to a better life—beyond the sorrow and pain that had plagued her parents. The Gods, it seemed, had different plans. Marethari sighs the sigh of a woman who has seen too much death even in a lifetime as long as hers and silently urges her aching heart to move on. She has a clan to guide.

_During this, your last hour, only silence._


	3. in death sacrifice

We finally meet Mahariel, who ponders fate, prejudice, and the idea that's she's not truly Dalish anymore at the worst possible time.

It occurs to her in the last twelve steps of her life that she is running further and further away from the life she used to lead and with each step, it became clearer and clearer that her new path led only to a dead end.

_Step._

She hadn't wanted this. She hadn't wanted any of this—becoming a Grey Warden, saving the world, and she certainly hadn't wanted to lose her best friend to the same sickness that she herself had found safety from. However temporary that cure may have been, however the horrific consequences of the cure, every second it raced through her body, it was just another reminder of her failure.

_Step._

Everyone expected something out of her: do this, find that, make a life-altering, world-shattering, vitally-important decision with absolutely no exposition here. She never wanted to decide the fate of kingdoms or meddle in human politics or be forced into making impossible choices. Two years ago, her biggest decision was whether or not to skip crafting duty that day or what part of the Fall of Dales she would improvise, and now... She still wasn't sure if she'd made the right one, but she only had another ten steps to wonder. The least of her worries now were if she had crowned the right person or if she should have accepted Morrigan's offer.

_Step_.

She was Dalish, for the gods' sake. How was she supposed to know the intricacies of hierarchies and genealogies? Her people had a simple command structure: the Keepers, usually directly descended from the elves of Arlathan, the Haren, who was a respected and revered elder, and everyone else. Eamon and the other Arls would have been better off asking a hawk how best to breathe underwater or Teagan what childbirth felt like. It was a fine time for the shem to abandon their prejudices towards the Dalish.

_Step_.

But then again, she wasn't truly Dalish anymore, was she? No matter her own feelings on the topic, the Joining had made her a Grey Warden with Grey Warden blood. Her blood wasn't the blood of those who had defied the Chantry or who refused to bow down under fire, famine, and disease. The Gods probably wouldn't even recognize her as elvhen anymore. She'd left her clan and adopted a human cause. She was no better than a flat ear now.

_Step_.

She could deal with the politics and the demands and her new duty. She could deal with the looks from passersby and the snide comments about her ears, clothes, and tattoo. She'd long ago stopped searching for a hint of the blame in her father's death in the face of every human she walked by. She hadn't needed Alistair's help for months in puzzling out the correct number of coins to hand to a merchant or even in deciphering the conversion to see if she'd been cheated or not.

_Step_.

She was handling the responsibilities of leadership and the never-ending line of people who needed her help. She'd learned that humans were not elves, and that the only way to be heard was to follow the correct formula first because no matter how wrong the human was, telling them so was always out of the equation; she didn't like humans' way of conversation, all the twisting and convoluting and no one ever said what they truly meant, but at least she'd finally taken the first step in being a proper ambassador .She was slowly handling nightmares that scourged her dreams and demons that brought her worst fears to reality. She was used to being on the run.

_Step_.

But to realize that just as she was fulfilling the duty given to her by the Keeper and Duncan she was simultaneously betraying everything she'd ever believed in—there was nothing that could ever forgive that.

_Step_.

What would Marethari think? Or Ashalle? The rest of the clan: Fenarel, Junar, Merrill, Ilen or Pol—how would they react? She'd already convinced Dalish hunters to sacrifice themselves for a country that treated them like garbage. She'd been _glad _to do it, had been proud when so many archers, at least half the hunters from each clan in or near Ferelden, had massed in Redcliffe Castle's courtyard. _That_ was the Dalish. _That_ was sacrifice and duty. But now... Now...

_Step_.

Running away is no longer an option. Truthfully, it never had been. While she would have been more than happy to leave the humans to the mercy of the Blight a year ago, that damned Mirror had made things personal.

_Step_.

No more thinking. No more fighting tooth and nail just to survive. Just the anticipation of the embrace of Death. She keeps running. Past darkspawn and dwarves and humans and elves. At this point in the fight, there is no distinguishing any of them in her eyes anyway. She darts past a shriek (for the first time since learning of the Taint, she isn't reminded of proud blue eyes and her heart doesn't ache) and sidesteps a dead Hurlock to pull a short sword from another fallen darkspawn. There is no more time for such petty things as thoughts and feelings. Her mind is blissfully silent the last three steps. There is a flash as she sinks the blade into the Archdemon's skull and the ensuing pulse of energy ensures that she has nothing to feel anymore.


	4. King

King Alistair emerges! My Mahariel, at least, would take the Landsmeet rejection as a rejection of the Dalish as a whole, rather than a personal one. Add that to inevitable Chantry/Dalish tensions, and it makes for a very volatile situation.

_In 9:31 Dragon, the Hero of Ferelden defeated the Archdemon Urthemiel, ended the Fifth Blight, and crowned the bastard son of Maric, Alistair, the King of Ferelden. In honour of the Hero's efforts and the valiant sacrifice of her kind, the newly-crowned King gave the now darkspawn-free lands around Ostagar to the Dalish under the leadership of Keeper Lanaya. _

_ In 9:33 Dragon, two Sisters of the Chantry, on a mission to spread the Chant of Light, attempt to convince the eclectic bands of elves on Dalish territory to become proper Andrastians. As per Dalish custom, as much as recently re-united bands of individuals can have definitive customs, the Sisters are escorted from Ostagar at arrow-point by several of Lanaya's hunters. _

_ In 9:34 Dragon, in light of the offenses against Sisters Clementine and Matilla, the Divine issues demands for immediate reparations from both the Dalish and Ferelden. As the neutral party, it falls to King Alistair to both officiate and mediate the meeting between the two parties. _

Alistair sighs and drops the scroll to rub his temples in methodical circles. Official reports of the entire affair are frank but relay none of the emotional drives behind the conflict. Judging by the reports, there would be no reason why the Dalish wouldn't concede to the Divine's requests. The initial sovereign estimate, while large, was not entirely unreasonable (of course, for a people who up until three years ago had little need for currency in any form, reliance upon a monetary value was new and he wasn't even sure the Dalish had that much coin) and to an Andrastian like most Fereldens are in some form or another, the Dalish resistance to the Bride of the Maker was unfathomable. Of course, none of the reports take into account the fall of the Dales and the ensuing centuries of wandering nor the Chantry's own need to set a constant precedent with those who oppose it. The report, scrawled in the heavy hand of someone who clearly had no involvement on either side, is unsurprisingly almost completely useless to him at this point.

To his right sits the Knight Commander of the Orlais and a representative of the Divine, both in ridiculously ornate armour. To his left, clad in leathers and fur, sits Keeper Lanaya and the Hero of Ferelden herself, Ellina Mahariel. No one at the table is smiling.

"This is not an incident that can just be overlooked. Your soldiers attacked two members—"

"The hunters did no such thing," Ellina interrupts with a snarl.

"—and as such, the Divine demands retribution. Under our terms, your... Dalish will build a Chantry and a Revered Mother will be appointed to guide over your people," the envoy finishes smoothly as if Ellina hadn't spoken. Alistair held a sneaking suspicion that the envoy hadn't even heard her.

Ellina's face, already in a snarl, twists into an expression far more sinister than Alistair had seen on her before. There is a subtle shift in the rogue's movements, a tell-tale stillness that warns of an impending attack. Alistair is unable to reach her from the head of the table but Lanaya rests a weathered hand on her companion's shoulder.

"As far as I am aware," the Keeper of the unified Dalish begins, keeping a firm grip on Ellina's shoulder and clutching a wooden staff with her free hand, "Orlais does not cater to other cultures, especially the Dalish. I see no reason why we should."

In any other situation, Alistair would have groaned. He very nearly does, but Eamon's voice pops into his thoughts, as if the man were resting on his shoulder, and he reminded that _kings do not groan, Alistair, at least not in public. _Then again, in any other situation, he might not have just watched the very thin veil of diplomacy irreparably tear.

As if waiting for a proclamation of doom, Alistair directs his gaze to the envoy for her reply. He might have imagined it, but he could have sworn the grey-haired woman smiled.

"If you do not comply," the woman spoke in a clear tone, "the Divine will be forced to declare an Exalted March."

This time both Lanaya and Ellina rose. "You filthy shemlen!" Ellina hisses, slipping into a decades old prejudice, "You had this planned from the start!"

Face deathly pale, Alistair fought to regain control of his tongue. "Ferelden will not tolerate an Orlesian march on our soil," he said and hoped that the quivering in his voice wasn't overly noticeable.

The envoy, still projecting a veneer of calm, directed her attention to Alistair. "But not two days ago you insisted that as a nomadic people, the actions of the Dalish had no reflection on Ferelden as a whole."

Swearing profusely in his head, Alistair took great pains to keep his face impassive as his words were being thrown back into his face. From the corner of his eye he could see Ellina momentarily direct her scowl to him. Even when the two of them had been close, he'd always tread carefully when it came to the Dalish. He'd been younger and less worldly and hadn't wanted to make more enemies than necessary and to be completely honest, she'd scared him. She was so proud of her people and the entire subject was a sensitive one. Even now. Especially now.

"If the Dalish are not reflective of Ferelden, then surely your people would not take great offense were Orlais to... remove the problem," the envoy presses on, a quirk in her eyebrow.

Ellina growls and her fingers twitch. Were her bow not currently guarded in the next room, Alistair was positive it would already be drawn.

He frowns and attempts one last time to rectify the situation. "Ferelden will not tolerate any Orlesian offensive action," he insists.

The envoy did not look deterred. She and the silent but watchful Knight-Commander stand and begin to walk towards the door. She stops a few feet from the doorway and turns around briefly. "Then we expect to hear from Keeper Lanaya regarding Chantry Regulations within the fortnight. May the Maker bless your steps, King Alistair."

Alistair doesn't bother seeing the Orlesians off. Instead he turns to the Dalish women. Ellina and Lanaya are frozen in nearly identical positions, bodies lurched forward, mouths open in shock and horror, and hands reaching for an absent weapon. Both had lost all colour in their faces. He was at least partly grateful that they both seemed to recognize the gravity of the situation. Talking to Lanaya always left him with the distinct impression that he was nothing more than a lumbering fool in shiny headgear. The sole consolidation was that for once, Eamon usually fared no better in the discourse; his careful machinations became just a different kind of failure from Alistair's usual _um, uh, wait a minute, that didn't come out quite right, let me try again._

He takes two steps towards them, uncomfortably aware of the oversized, over-jeweled, overbearing hunk of gold and bronze atop his head. Searching for miraculous words to somehow avert imminent disaster, Alistair waits until both elves' eyes are on him.

"I know your people are strong," he tells them in what he thought of his kingly voice, "but you will not be able to fight against an Exalted March and I cannot guarantee any assistance. I will try, but-"

"Save it," Ellina interrupts briskly, her voice firm but flat, "Orlais has promised to spare Ferelden. This no longer concerns you."

'And there it is,' Alistair thinks grimly. He dislikes that voice, the one he had been introduced to that had gradually disappeared from their conversations sometime during the debacle at the Circle, but suddenly and violently came roaring back after the Landsmeet. "Ellina-"he tries again, but knows immediately his informal address is a mistake.

"Your Queen is waiting," she responds coldly, no longer bothering to hide the icy jealousy in her voice. Her eyes found his for only a fraction of a moment before she broke the connection and the conversation in one silent toss of her head.

With a defeated sigh, the King departed. As he left, he heard Ellina and Lanaya discussing the possibility of dwarven assistance: _The Chantry threatened them with a March two years ago – But who would be foolish enough to march into potential darkspawn territory – perhaps Orzammar would be willing to shelter the children? _ The conversation followed him down the hallway, and Alistair knew this story wouldn't have a happy ending. He knew that no matter how hard the Dalish fought, Orlais would win. He knew that the Dalish weren't going to be fighting for survival—rather to take as many down with them, and he knew that in a couple of months, he would have Arl Eamon at his door, an insincere apologetic look on his face, saying that the latest skirmish had been a Pyrrhic victory and the Hero of Ferelden, the woman he wasn't allowed to love, was confirmed as one of the casualties.


	5. Blood

The scenario that started it all.

Spoilers for Dragon Age 2.

* * *

When Alistair tried to talk her out of it, she pointed back the way they came and told him that he was free to leave but she would press on. She tried to tell him that Elgar'nan haunted her sleep, that her sweat and breath tasted of fear, sorrow, and rage, that she heard Marethari singing every time the wind picked up and the sound of it stilled her heart, but all that came out was a rough elvish promise she could only translate as the path she needed to tread. That she was now far beyond the point of mercy or humanity went unspoken but by no means unnoticed. After a brief quip of "At least it's not the damned Deep Roads", he followed, though not without hesitation, and seemed to understand that she wasn't truly herself anymore.

It is the final day of her life, she knows, and she stalks her prey with the finesse of the swiftest falcon, the ferociousness of a brown bear, and the fierce dedication of a wolf. Barely moving save for the swivel of her eyes as they catch every movement of the party below, she waits for the perfect moment to strike. There is no room in her thoughts for failure; this is a hunt that will end in a successful claim.

Time becomes nothing more than the span from one breath to the next until the moment to strike is at hand and in a fraction of a second, she has sent an arrow into the camp, felling a red-haired woman with a shot through the throat. A swift, painless kill—the way of Andruil—because no matter how vile the prey, the Vir Tanadahl must be followed.

The camp below takes a moment for the death to register. "Aveline!" the black-haired woman dressed in ornate red and black armour and carrying wickedly curved blades calls out in alarm as the woman crumples to the ground. However, her cry is in vain, as the aforementioned Aveline is already dead. Ellina chooses that moment to leap into the fray, bow at her back and blades whirling. She is driven by rage and is utterly without mercy.

Three figures are closest to her: an elf in dark armour polishing a broadsword at least as tall as he was, a woman juggling two wineskins and another man in patchwork robes rifling through the satchel at his hip. She leaves the white-haired elf to her ever faithful war-hound Revas and Alistair. Instead, she skirts past the swordsman and ends up in combat with a dark-skinned, pantsless, vaguely familiar figure from her past (Isabela, her mind supplies. Pirate Queen. Duellist). Isabela is good. Very good. But she also made the mistake of teaching Ellina her tricks all those years ago. In a matter of moments, a hunting knife is buried into Isabela's unguarded chest and the elf is moving on.

Alistair is holding his own against the now-glowing elf and Revas has moved on to a crossbow-bearing dwarf. Ellina pays no mind. Her personal target is close and the bloodlust spurs her on.

Another man from her memory. This time she remembers burning Templars, a small kitten, and an empty warehouse. Anders. She is at a loathe to kill him. He had been a treasured ally—a friend— at one time and she does not abandon friends lightly. The shock of seeing her face registers on his before she smashes the pommel of her blade into his head. He falls to the ground. If he dies, he dies. She is already moving.

And now, after months of searching, hours of watching, and minutes of charging headfirst into a heavily armed encampment, she is face-to-face with her clans' murderers.

"Merrill. Hawke," Ellina spits out.

"El-Ellina," Merrill stutters, green eyes wide in fright and surprise.

The former Warden-Commander begins her advance, eyes locked on Merrill's. "You killed them all."

"I—"

"They were going to kill her!" the black-haired Hawke shouts as she pulls herself from Anders' crumpled body. Her face too, is mired in anger.

"I don't care why." She doesn't. Truly. 'Why' doesn't change what happened and she already knows 'how', 'who', 'when', 'where', and 'what'.

"Merrill has already paid for her actions. The mirror—" Hawke shouts back.

Ellina growls, "That damned mirror! You saw what it did to me—what it did to Tamlen! And yet you pursued it still?"

Merrill draws her lithe body into a shaky stance. "It was an opportunity to regain some of our past!"

Letting loose a loud snarl, Ellina throws herself at the other elf. One of her blades nicks at Merrill's cheek before a block of stone pushes her back.

Ellina doesn't press further but remains at the ready. Voice heavy with pain and accusation, she resumes her tirade. "They loved you! They were your clan! Nothing is worth more than their lives. A _true_ Dalish would know that."

A stunned look flashes across Merrill's anguished face. "I—"

Ellina shakes her head once. She is overcome with rage and the fear in her ex-clanmate's eyes does nothing to quell the writhing mass of wrath within her. "No more words, Merrill."

She'd once vowed never to spill Dalish blood unless absolutely, strictly, the-fate-of-the-world-or-her-companions'-lives-depends-on-it necessary. But Merrill wasn't Dalish anymore. In a flash, Ellina darts forward again, only this time there is no wall of stone to block her attack. Her prey has fallen. She doesn't hear Hawke's enraged cry, doesn't hear the clash of long sword on two-handed sword and doesn't hear the low whimper of a dog in pain. She does, however, feel the sleek pain of a steel bolt sliding through her stomach‐ feels the unrelenting ground as it rushes to meet her and most importantly, does feel the relief of a duty finally fulfilled.


	6. The Clan Moves On

Mahariel never becomes the Warden. Like Darkspawn Chronicles, but with obvious changes.

* * *

There was a sharp twang and a whistle in the air just before Tamlen cried out and fell to the ground. An arrow jutted out of his left calf and blood soon soaked his breeches around the wound.

Ellina launched herself to Tamlen, planting a foot on either side of him and looking carefully for an attacker in the woods. She unsheathed her hunting knife from her hip and held it firmly in her hand.

"Out," she ordered into the woods, "Or I'll find a far more creative place to stick _my_ arrow."

Tamlen sniggered at her feet. "Well that threat went somewhere lewd in no time at all."

"Quiet, Tamlen," she growled.

The woods shouted back. "Relax, Mahariel, it's Junar."

Ellina relaxed, sheathing her knife in one smooth motion and swinging around to the direction of the shout. Two elves emerged from the thicket, one in hunter's leather and the other in human's garb. Ellina recognized Junar immediately. The other, however, was new to her.

Junar burst out laughing. The unknown elf paled under her critical gaze, then quickly his face took on a twinge of green as he stared at Tamlen slumped on the ground. He stumbled over himself to apologize.

"Oh Maker, no! I'm so—is he okay? I'm sorry—so, so sorry. I didn't mean to..."

Tamlen grunted as Ellina ducked down and threw one arm over her shoulder. Completely ignoring the stuttering, blond elf, she sent a firm glare to Junar and he quit laughing long enough to walk over to Tamlen's other side and do the same.

Ellina and Junar rose in unison and then, once standing upright, each turned to grasp Tamlen under the knee with their other hand.

"Why yes, I am King of the Forest. Carry me you mortal fools," Tamlen joked weakly, wincing in pain as Junar jostled his injured calf.

Ellina rolled her eyes. With Tamlen hissing and cursing between them, she and Junar set off for Marethari's aravel. The other elf lingered for a moment, looked around uncertainly, then darted off behind the hunters, still apologizing profusely.

xxx

Marethari ushered everyone out of the aravel while Tamlen slept. Once outside, the errant bowman had gone completely silent with fear written all over his un-tattooed face. Junar clapped a hand on his comrade's shoulder and when the man showed no inclination of doing so himself, introduced him as Pol.

Ellina glanced at the aravel where her friend slept peacefully and allowed the frown to fall from her lips. As she listened to Pol speak of his past, apologizing for his missed shot every other sentence, the frown turned into an amused smirk.

"Prove yourself useful and the clan will be your home," she said once he'd finished.

Pol nodded eagerly, a hint of a blush creeping up his pale cheeks. "Yes! I will, well, I'll try," he admitted.

Ellina nodded and Junar sniggered. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"We'll work on his archery," Junar swore, still laughing under his breath.

Ellina's eyebrow rose further. "Sometimes the fault lies with the master, not the student," she countered evenly.

"Not this master."

Ellina caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of her eye and looked discreetly to her right. She saw Hahren Paivel advancing towards the trio, no doubt aching to give her a lecture ( How could you not see the arrow coming? ...You have allowed the Keeper's praise to go to your head. ...You must be more careful. ...Let me recount the Fall of the Dales). In a teasing voice, she patted Pol once on the shoulder and said, "Make sure you ask Junar why Paivel finds it painful to sit sometimes when the weather turns." With Junar blubbering the background and Paivel quickly reaching lecture-giving distance, Ellina quickly darted off in the opposite direction.

xxx

The messenger shook so much he could barely get the words out. His eyes were all fire and his mouth dripped vitriol.

"The whole clan?" someone in the back of the group asked.

The messenger nodded and suddenly the clan was in an uproar.

Fenarel, Ineira, and Lysair let their fury take over. "The shemlen who did this will not live long," Ineira swore.

"How many?" Fenarel questioned the messenger in the next second. "How many in the group that did this?" He spit out the last few words as if they were bitter on his tongue.

"To take down a clan as powerful as Zathrian's?" Ilen proposed. "At least thirty."

The messenger shook his head. "We only have second-hand witnesses in a nearby village. The Innkeeper said a party of seven recently passed through, headed in Zathrian's last known direction."

Ellina was one of the ones to express her doubts. "A band of _seven_ murdered an _entire_ clan?" she hissed, moving to the front.

"Not possible," Junar agreed. "I met Zathrian at the last Gathering; He sent the trees chasing after me, actually. His magic is worth twenty shem, at least."

The messenger stared into the fire for a long moment. His voice was equal parts hatred and equal parts horror when he finally spoke. "My clan investigated the camp. Their bodies were... mauled. Tuvai, our master scout, guessed a pack of large dogs or wolves."

Someone beside Ellina muttered, "Fen'Harel..."

"Even the children?" Ashalle asked. She shook her head. "Surely the children were at least..."

Gritting his teeth, the messenger shook his head slowly.

Ellina heard her clan's collected outcry as a dull roar. She suddenly tasted blood and was not sure if that was the effect of her current bloodlust or if she had just bitten her tongue in rage.

"We must avenge them!" Lysair screamed, turning to face his clanmates.

Fenarel nodded. "We'll show them the true might of the Dalish."

Maren, six months with child, had a different reaction. "They're going to do it, aren't they?" she cried out over the roar of the clan. She shook, not from rage but from sorrow and hugged her swollen stomach in desperation. Ashalle moved to her side and slung a cloak over her shoulders. "They've finally decided to kill us all." Ashalle grabbed Maren's hand but could offer no condolences. Her face betrayed fear too.

"No," Marethari said finally. The clan continued to argue until Marethari slammed her staff to the ground and sent a flash of light shooting up to the sky. When she had everyone's attention, Marethari repeated herself. "No. We will leave at dawn."

Ellina, Ineira, Lysair, and Fenarel began to protest. Marethari banged her staff again. She glared at each in turn before addressing the messenger.

"Presten, thank you for bringing this news, as grim as it may be, and thank Keeper Kalros as well. We will heed her wisdom and warn any other clans we pass. It is clear Ferelden no longer welcomes the Dalish."

The messenger nodded and Marethari ordered the clan to begin preparations to move at once. True to her word, Marethari led the clan north as soon as the sun rose about the horizon the next morning. Within a fortnight, Clan Sabrae had caught its last glimpse of Ferelden.

Ellina looked back only once their last day west of the Frostback Mountains. For the rest of her life she never hated anything as much as she did Ferelden in that moment.

xxx

The dreams started halfway to Nevarra and never really stopped. The first night she dreamt of herself surrounded by a strange party: four humans, a dog, an elf, a dwarf, a brooding Qunari, and a creature made of stone. She saw her and her companions fighting horrific monsters. In the dream her blood burned and she sometimes heard a haunting song but she never saw anyone actually singing.

In later dreams, she usually saw herself fighting: fighting the deformed monsters, shemlen, walking wolves, dragons, skeletons, trolls and the occasional elf or dwarf. Sometimes she saw herself in a rare moment of peace, in a camp very different from hers but felt no less like a home. She conversed with those strange companions too, and sometimes she even remembered their names for a minute after she awoke.

xxx

In Nevarra they learned of the Blight and of the failed attempt by a band of shem to end it. Marethari had the clan stay near the city an extra four months while she met with travellers and other Keepers at the most popular Inn, trying to predict the spreading of the Blight. Only when she was sure that it languished in Orlais did she choose a destination.

Meanwhile, Ellina's dreams shifted to different group of companions: two humans, a young dwarf and the old drunk one from before, a Dalish woman like her, and what she was sure was an animated corpse. Her dream-self still fought the monsters she now knew as darkspawn, and her blood still burned. The singing stopped, however, though she knew innately it was a temporary relief.

xxx

Tamlen finally worked up the nerve to present her with a Bonding cloak two years after the Fifth Blight came to a bloody end somewhere in the outer fringes of Orlais. She still dreamed, though not as frequently. Her dream-self spent most of her time as the wanderer. Sometimes the lands she walked were strikingly similar to the lands of her waking hours. Other times, it was if she inhabited a different world entirely. Sometimes she was alone, but more often than not, she travelled with a man and a dog. There was a quiet sort-of peace there, what felt like a long-awaited respite.

xxx

Falon'Din guided Marethari to the Beyond the summer after Ellina's second child was born. It was the worst possible moment for Merrill.

"Did your back hurt this much?" Merrill asked, alternating between hugging her very swollen belly and rubbing her aching back.

Ellina smiled as she fletched arrows. "Take a drop of elfroot oil with your tea," she suggested, carefully inspecting her arrow feathers for imperfections. She chuckled fondly. "Marethari let me walk in pain for nearly a month before I let go of my pride and asked for her help."

"Oh," muttered Merrill sadly, staring at her toes. "She died before I started to show. I never thought to ask her..."

Ellina set her arrows down and crossed the campfire to sit next to her friend. "Merrill, you're ready for this. Marethari said so before she passed and I'm saying so now."

Merrill looked up and smiled widely."I just hope I can live up to her memory," she confessed quietly.

Ellina nodded. Instead of answering straight away, she first looked at Hahren Paivel droning at a trio of elven children, one of which was her quiet son. She watched Ilen affectionately swat one of his apprentices upside the head while shaking a poorly-made bow in his other hand. She watched Tamlen pass Pol their baby daughter and smiled as Pol held the bundle with pure awe on his face, nodding along as Tamlen gave the soon-to-be father some hard-earned advice.

Ellina leaned over and grabbed the Keeper's heartwood staff, and stared at it for a moment before pressing it into Merrill's hands.

"We're your clan, Merrill," she said firmly with no room for argument. "We'll follow you."

She lived long enough to watch her daughter become the clan's master craftswoman and to give her son's son his first bow.

She had not dreamt of her other-self in decades, but that night she sees herself, at least thirty years younger, shrouded in darkness. Her blood burns fiercely and the bone-chilling song from many years past returned, forever at the back of her mind. In her dream, she walks through dank air and stone passages without purpose. The human is still at her side, far more comfortable with her dream-self than she likes. There is trust there, and affection. The man holds her hand and together, they leap into their last fight.

In the morning, she did not wake.


	7. Songs in the Deep

One of the things I learned writing these was how hard it was for Mahariel to reconcile her Dalishness with being a Grey Warden.

* * *

The air is hot, heavy, and stale. Every breath is a chore. She longs for a glimpse of the sky, to hear the chirp of a bird in the distance one more time, to smell the thick musk of pine sap, to feel rough bark beneath her fingers.

Dalish are not supposed to die here, where a tree's roots cannot reach. The gods do not dwell underground and she knows of no prayer to guide the wayward soul through stone.

Grey Wardens _are_ supposed to die here, where the darkspawn breed. The Grey Wardens do not care about gods or prayers or spirits living on in the woods.

She is a Grey Warden, first and foremost.

Alistair sharpens his sword beside her, allowing the slow _ssschinks_ to drown out the song in his head. Sometimes he catches her eye and attempts at a joke. Sometimes he just holds her hand.

"The Calling is senseless," she thinks, but when Alistair looks up, she thinks she might have spoken aloud.

"Eh?" Alistair asks, as eloquent as ever.

She huffs, blowing a strand of greying hair out of her face. "We lived for years, fought tooth-and-nail time and time again just to survive. Now, our hair turns grey and we suddenly have to fight to die. Ridiculous."

Alistair laughs loud enough to startle their Legion companions. He runs a weathered, old hand through his hair self-consciously. "There's still colour in there," he insists, "It's just very, very light blond now."

His antics lift her spirit for several minutes before the darkness presses on her once more. She clutches at the pendant at her neck, the only relic she has of her parents.

Alistair senses something. He moves to sit next to her and mimics her pose, staring out at the endless expanse of stone.

"This has got to be your worst nightmare, huh?" he asks quietly so that the dwarves cannot hear.

She looks at him, surprised etched all over her face. He laughs, loud and clear.

"I _do_ listen to you when you talk, you know. I even listen to that crotchety old man in your clan," Alistair says with a fake pout on his lips.

She smiles but does not respond further.

"Well, for what it's worth, before we reached Orzammar, I, uh, planted a tree for you."

She looks at him—_really_ looks at him.

"That's what you do, right?" he stammers, blushing fiercely. "Plant a tree so that life may grow from death? I planted one for me, too, just in case. Not sure if you can do that. Can you do that? Is that... okay?"

It's not—not really. She doesn't know the specifics but planting a tree before your, or even a friend's death, wasn't how it was supposed to work. He didn't need to know that though.

And maybe, just maybe, the gods wouldn't take too much offense at a human practising an ancient Dalish custom. Then again, being smote by Elgar'nan might be an easier death than to be eaten by darkspawn.

"Come on, love," Alistair says, standing up and dragging her with him. He swings his free hand outwards, surveying the Deep Roads with amusement. "We have a date with darkspawn."

She stifles a laugh and takes a couple steps past him, unsheathing her daggers as she does so. "I get the Hurlock Emissary," she mutters, only half joking.

"Not if I get to him first. That's one fine hunk of... flesh," Alistair jokes while grimacing in spite of himself.

They step forward together, into the darkness—the edge of nothing, ready to fight to die.

* * *

Mahariel's been laid to rest, for the seventh and final time. Her part is complete, and Hawke is up next. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
